Red Roses
by Little Patch of Heaven
Summary: It wasn't often that England gave France flowers. That was not to say he had never done it.  very light FrUK  Oneshot in honor of Valentine's Day


_Wait...is this...it couldn't possibly be...is this FrUK? How in the world did this happen? I was planning on writing a fluffy USUK Valentine's drabble...not...whatever this is. But oh well, I'll take whatever inspiration comes to me, I guess, and I am slowly liking the FrUK pairing more and more. Especially when they're children. Little Arthur is just too cute!_

_I'm not really sure if I like this or not. It was thrown together pretty quickly because I'm trying to get it posted before Valentine's Day ends, so it's a little rushed and not quite as revised as I would like it to be. Even so, please read, enjoy, and review._

_On a completely different note...first Hetalia fanfiction! Wahoo!_

_Theme: Valentine's Day  
Pairing: FrUK (France x England / Francis x Arthur)  
Description: It wasn't often that England gave France flowers. That was not to say he had never done it._

**I.**

He was young. So very, very young and already convinced that he was absolutely worthless.

The true cause of this problem came in the form of the boys three older brothers who had begun harrassing the young nation since his very creation. They had picked on him everytime they possibly could, kicking and hitting and him, boxing him upside the head and yelling obscenities at the poor boy who couldn't understand the meaning of the hurtful words. He became used to the bruises and injuries. So used to them that he managed to convince himself they didn't hurt. That this was normal. That, well, if he was going to just receive more injuries tomorrow, why worry about any he had at the moment? He began to simple ignore any injuries to himself.

But he couldn't just ignore it. The boy became obsessed with finding a reason for his brothers' cruelty. It became absolutely necessary to him that he discover what the source of their anger was. That he know why they were doing to him what they did.

And soon enough, Little England found his answer.

It was because he was worthless, wasn't it? Why else would he be harassed day after day by his brothers?

He was useless. No good. Horrible. A freak. Trash. Garbage. He didn't even deserve to live. Perhaps, the boy reasoned, it would be best if he just went of to war and never came back.

And that was when he saw him. The angel. (Though he certainly wouldn't have called him that if he knew what the boy was to become.)

He had hid in the bushes, watching France in wonder. Both out of curiousity and slight adoration. Here was someone beautiful. Here was someone who deserved to exist.

The boy had tried to hide from the other nation, tried to keep silent and secret as he followed him, and yet, he hadn't managed. A slightly raised root had tripped him, sending him rolling out of the bushes and into France's eyesight. England had been terrified; he was sure that now that the other boy had laid eyes on him, he would see - just like his brothers - how useless and pathetic he was. This boy would hate him too.

But France did not strike him. Did not kick him. Did not yell at him or insult him. The older boy had merely gasped in surprise at the unexpected boy, before tutting at him and hoisting him to his feet. Perhaps England should have been happy that the other boy had not attacked him. And yet, he couldn't push back his fear. The other boy was only waiting for the opportune moment, obviously. There was no way he was going to let England go. Not now that he had seen how truly hideous and horrible England was.

England was sure his fears had become reality when the older boy reached out towards him. The little island nation had shut his eyes tight, unwilling to watch as the other boy beat him. And yet, no pain came. He felt no blows at all. What he could feel, however, was gentle hands working through his tangled hair. It felt nice, England realized. Shocked, he had opened one eye cautiously, curious to see what the other boy was doing. France caught him peeking and smiled. "You have leaves in your hair," he had laughed, before resuming his task of pulling sticks and twigs from the younger boys matted, blond locks.

England thinks he might remember blushing there. He might even have relaxed, relishing in someone's kind touch. But of course he would never admit it.

Just like would never admit - never in a million years. Never even if the world was ending - that he may have possibly adored France after that.

After all, France was beautiful. He was graceful and cheeful and wonderful and England was just very simply not any of those things. And better yet, the other nation was never mean to him. They did have their fights - once England had grown sure that France would not hit him if he argued - but those petty fights never changed England's opinion of the other nation.

Never. Because France cared for him. Cared for **him**, England. Worthless, no good England.

And England had loved him for it.

It wasn't long after England had met him that France mentioned his love for flowers. "Roses especially," he had said. "But I really just love them all." It seemed silly, the younger boy thought, to like something as worthless as flowers. Flowers didn't protect you from attackers. Flowers didn't kill opposing soldiers. Flowers didn't provide food or make houses or any of the things England considered useful.

But France loved flowers.

So England had collected flowers. He had spent a whole day searching. It wouldn't have taken nearly as long if he had just settled with wildflowers. The hills and countryside were almost overrun with them, after all, and it wouldn't have taken more than a few minutes to gather up a handful. But, France like roses, which were much harder to find. The young boy had searched hours and hours, until the sun began to set and the temperature had begun to drop. He had almost been ready to turn in for the night when he had found exactly what he was looking for: a rose bush.

The next day, a nervous England shyly presented his bouquet - complete with beautiful red roses - to the other nation.

England was never quite sure what France thought of that gesture, even as he grew older and occasionally looked back on the memory - insisting to himself that he wasn't analyzing it because no, he did not give a damn what France thought. The other nation had appeared very surprised - and speechless for the first time since England had known him - when he had taken the bouquet from the younger, blushing boy.

There had been a moment of silence between the two - France staring in wonder at the flowers in his hands and England staring at his feet with a very red face - before France had shrugged it off and moved the conversation elsewhere. Whether this was because he sensed England's discomfort and embarrassment or he himself simply didn't know what to think of England's actions, England didn't know. But he gladly accepted the distraction.

They both forgot about it.

**II.**

It was just after the hundred years. Not nearly long enough for either of the two nations to heal. Both of them were hurting badly. From the war. From the vast number of citizens killed. From the stress of having to fight their dearest, longest friend. And both wanted nothing more than to make up and be done with it.

And yet, both of them would die before apologizing to the other.

Years passed without talking, without daring glance at each other too long. Days and days went by without an apology from either side. No action was taken to fix the quickly deteriorating relationship between them.

And then, quite unexpectantly, France found a bouquet of red roses outside of his door. It was sent anonymously, with no note or card to give away the sender's identity. Even so, France knew exactly who it was from.

The nation smiled slightly - whether from melancholy or joy he coudn't be certain - before clutching the flowers close to his chest and breaking down into sobs.

He prayed England wasn't anywhere nearby to see him break down like this. And at the same time, he wanted so desperately for the other nation to be there.

When they next saw each other, formal greetings were passed - the first words between them in years - but the flowers were not mentioned.

And both of them chose to forget it.

**III.**

It was the end of World War II.

France was suffering, more so than he could remember suffering before. He could feel the aftermath of Germany in his nation. He could sense the aftermath of the war in his emotional state. And neither were in very good condition.

But instead of asking for help from any of the other nations - or, rather, one in particular - he hid himself away, only leaving his house when needed for his nation duties.

He was breaking. Slowly but surely his mind was slipping as he relived his imprisonment at the hands of Germany, relived every little mistake on his part, every little thing he did wrong in the war, and every little thing he should have done differently. Each and everyday he wondered why he couldn't have been stronger. Strong enough to push back the German troops. Strong enough to protect himself. Strong enough to protect his country.

Strong enough that England wouldn't look at him like he was weak and useless.

Whether it was luck or divine providence, just as he was sure he was going to lose it, the very nation - no, the very **_person_** - he wanted to see the most showed up on his door.

Arthur held a bouquet of roses in his hands. Red roses, in fact, France's favorite. They were roughly thrust into France's hands as the other man forced himself into the house, loudly complaining about the weather - which really seemed quite insignificant after a devastating war - before looking straight at him and calling him by his name, _Francis_, rather than his title.

And when France gave him a questioning look, wondering why in the hell England would be showing up on his doorstep right now of all times, when he had so many duties to perform and things to repare, Arthur had merely smiled.

"Can't we simply be people for once, rather than countries?" He had sounded so incredibly weary as he asked this. France looked at him closer, realizing for the first time that he could easily see the dark shadows under the younger man's eyes, the weariness in his stance, and the dullness in his normally vivid, green eyes.

"Yes," he had agreed quickly.

After all, they both needed a break from their responsibilities right now.

The roses had been placed in a vase and displayed proudly on a shelf. But they were never mentioned by the two men.

Instead, they chose to ignore them.

**And so on.**

"No flowers this time?"

France's question was not answered; instead, a heart shaped box - and bright, blasted **_pink_** of all colors - was roughly thrown in his face.

England turned his head away from the other nation, trying desperately to hide his rising blush and appear somewhat authorative and menacing.

"Just take the damn chocolates, frog."


End file.
